


Safe With Each Other

by Libbyfay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale experiences slight OCD, Canon Compliant, How they came up with the body swap, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just another after-the-bus-ride scene, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Realization, Reminiscing, The "wrestling" angel statue that didn't make it into the film., Triggers, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds/Libbyfay
Summary: The night after saving the world, Aziraphale freaks out a little.  Partly because he could have lost his best friend, but also because ‘heavenly’ things seem to have a disastrous effect on demons.  Crowley desperately tries to shake his angel out of it, which leads to a good idea.





	Safe With Each Other

They rode the bus together in silence. Not an awkward silence, but one filled with thoughts on both sides. Several times, one of them would look up to find the other openly staring back. Somehow, this wasn’t awkward either, and when they caught each other’s eyes, Crowley would just frown warmly, Aziraphale would smile, and they’d go back to their thoughts.

After dropping off the other passengers, the bus continued along to London, more than an hour out of its way, but the driver seemed happy enough about it. He dropped off his last two passengers outside a swanky apartment building, never mind that there was no bus stop in sight. Aziraphale thanked him, and the man assured them that the pleasure was all his. A tiny blessing would ensure the driver didn’t get into trouble with his own head office.

Crowley led them through the foyer, grunted at the front-desk guy, ushered Aziraphale into the elevator first, then punched the top floor button.

“I’m excited to see your flat.” Aziraphale said, sounding in fact rather excited.

“You’ve been to my place.” Crowley objected. “Haven’t you?”

“Not this one. The last one was, let me see… the 20’s I think.”

“Oh, well this one is,“ not nicer, Crowley thought. Not by the angel’s standards of hominess. He settled for “bigger.”

“We always hang out at the shop.” Aziraphale continued to chatter on, not really thinking of what he was saying.

“That’s cuz your place is nicer.” Crowley answered automatically, and the words were already out of his mouth before his brain checked him with images of the fire. The bookshop was gone; it was a tragedy to both of them. The shop had been the one place in the world where Crowley had felt safest. Well, so much for idle conversation.

Crowley unlocked his door, and Aziraphale waited politely for him to go in first and turn the lights on.

“Oh.” Crowley said flatly. Then, “Shit.”

Aziraphale rushed in after him and found Crowley standing in the entry way looking morosely down at the floor. Just inside the doorway to the next room, there was a puddle and a pile of something. He could smell a hint of sulfur in the air.

“Sorry, angel. Looks like the maid hasn’t been.”

He came to stand next to Crowley, “What’s this?”

“Your holy water put to good use.” As realization dawned, Aziraphale reached out a hand, instinctively pushing Crowley back from the mess. “I forgot. A lot’s happened since I murdered this bastard in cold blood. It… slipped my mind.”

“_This _is what the holy water was for?”

The demon shrugged, “I tried to tell you.”

“And you, you’re ok?” The angel asked breathlessly. Just one drop, and this could have been Crowley.

“I’m fine.” he said simply. “He’s not. Now, my floor’s a mess.” Crowley looked around for something he could use to begin cleaning it up, and he took a step into the room. 

“No, you don’t!” Aziraphale said quickly, and Crowley vanished in mid-step, reappearing again in the middle of the room, five feet away. Startled, he turned and looked back at Aziraphale, who was still standing protectively in the doorway. “You’re not going anywhere near this!”

“Probably used up most of the holiness by now,” he said dismissively.

“Are you sure that’s how it works?”

“No.” Crowley admitted.

“Neither am I. I’m going to take care of this.” Aziraphale said with more confidence than he felt.

“Lucky me,” Crowley said acerbically, and then realized that his defensive tone made no sense. “I mean, I’m lucky you’re here,” he sighed. “I guess I’ll go take a shower. Get my head straight.”

“Yes, good idea, dear. And, um, take your time about it.”

Aziraphale summoned up a pile of towels and began to contain the spill with hazmat procedures. First, laying the towels at the perimeter of the puddle and working his way inward. He tried to keep his mind professionally blank, but when he crouched lower, the smell of sulfur was stronger, and he wretched. 

He saw this little tableau from the outside. The image of himself cleaning up a mess of holy water and disintegrated demon, was just too close to his very worst fears. 

_It’s fine. Crowley’s fine. There, see, that’s the sound of the shower._

Aziraphale found an overturned bucket nearby and put the used-up towels in it. Looking around, he also saw the original tartan flask sitting near the wall. He grabbed the flask, dropped it in the bucket with the greasy towels. He kept cleaning, but now his hands were shaking. It was his flask, his weapon, and just one drop could have… _No. Crowley was fine. It had probably saved his life. _

When he got to the clothes in the middle of the puddle, Aziraphale gagged again. He held up the ugly brown tunic and found he could not stop picturing Crowley’s stylish clothes in the puddle instead. Why wouldn’t his brain just stop? This was ridiculous. He closed his eyes tight and shook his head to clear it. Instead he suddenly imagined finding Crowley’s glasses, laying on top.

Working at top speed now, Aziraphale stuffed the clothes into the bucket, piled in the rest of the towels and vanished the whole disgusting mess. As an afterthought, he pulled out his handkerchief and dried the door frame and door handle and then vanished the handkerchief as well. _Ok. Clean. Clean, right?_

He ran a hand across his forehead and sighed. He could still hear the shower running, so it hadn’t taken as long as he thought.

He took a turn around the room to distract himself. The absurdity of the throne felt like an inside joke. Always the egotist, Crowley. Or at least that’s what he fancied himself, and Aziraphale didn’t argue. The room was otherwise pretty bare, just a huge ornate desk, a couple of pieces of art and a pedestal displaying a sculpture. The ceiling and walls were slate grey, with energy-efficient recessed lighting dotted around. One of the beams of light fell on the pedestal, and Aziraphale could make out wings on the marble statue. It immediately worried him; although, it wouldn’t have taken much to worry him in his already overwrought state. 

Upon closer inspection, it was clearly a representation of two angelic figures doing… something… he couldn’t tell what. Fighting maybe. Aziraphale was certain that the statue was meant to be the two of them. He wasn’t a fool. Maybe it was one of Crowley’s jokes. Maybe if he hadn’t just barely survived Armageddon, he might have been able to get the joke. Was it depicting an epic struggle between good and evil? There was something about the way the two angels… He was studying the statue closely, trying to figure out why it seemed so important, so he didn’t hear when Crowley walked back in the room.

“All clear?” 

Aziraphale jumped a foot in the air. “Oh God! You started me! Yes, I - it’s clean. I mean, I think so.”

Crowley grinned. He loved startling the angel. It was, in fact, one of his favorite things in the whole world. And since the world hadn’t ended, he would get to do it a lot more. Aziraphale glanced guiltily back at the statue. Crowley had always looked forward to startling Aziraphale with the sculpture, one day. He had planned a number of awkward and illuminating conversations about it. This was his chance. But then he noticed that the angel’s hands were balled into tight fists at his sides. It probably wouldn’t be funny tonight. Bummer. 

Instead, Crowley looked around the room and said, “Nice work. What do you charge to do the whole flat?” Then, “Hey, did you see my thermos?” Crowley looked around, checked the corners and said, half to himself, “Wanted to keep the ugly little thing.”

Aziraphale reassured himself that, yes, Crowley was right here, just like always, except for cleaner and maybe more lovely than Aziraphale had ever seen him. Crowley was wearing the most remarkable black silk pajamas. Long sleeves and loose pants fitted him so well wouldn’t have looked out of place at a fancy dress party or a photo shoot for male models. Tiny pearlescent buttons ran up to an Asian collar, which Crowley wore undone. His dark glasses were gone for the moment. He’d just been toweling at his hair, and he discarded the towel over the back of the throne. His hair stood up in damp locks at all kinds of funny angles. 

Aziraphale wanted to feel Crowley’s hair, comb his fingers through it and make it lay right. 

What should have been a stray thought careened into the intersection of Aziraphale’s mind and caused a three-car pileup. Car #1 was Crowley’s statue, whatever it might have meant. Car #2 was the fleeting, but not uncommon, desire to touch his friend. Car #3 was a sudden worry that there might still be holy water on his hands from the earlier work. Aziraphale watched in horror as these thoughts hurdled toward each other, brakes failing, and then became one gnarled, melted mess right in the middle of his train of thought. 

_What if one touch might lead to… _

The fourth vehicle to be swept into the accident was more like a double-decker bus, and it contained the image of Crowley melting, under his touch, into a sulfuric little puddle of silk PJs.

The accident scene burst impressively into flames.

The angel’s hands flew up to his lips in a gesture of prayer, and he hurried to the nearest door. Two doors later, he finally found the kitchen and began washing his hands like his… well, like someone’s life depended on it.

Crowley looked around for the thermos in a few other places (maybe the angel had hidden it in the desk somewhere), but with no success. He pouted for a moment, standing sullenly with his hands on his hips, and then went to see where Aziraphale had wandered off to. He found him at the kitchen sink, his shirt sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded on the floor.

“I was joking.” Crowley said, surprised.

“What dear?” Aziraphale asked distractedly, his voice too calm.

“About cleaning the rest of the flat.” Then, approaching, Crowley realized his mistake. Aziraphale was washing his hands, scrubbing them was more like, and scalding them too if the steam was any indication. “Hey. You can have a shower if you want.”

“No!” Aziraphale eyes jumped to Crowley’s face for an instant. Then he went back to washing, applied more soap and muttered, “Not a good idea. Definitely not. This will have to do.”

“Ok. No shower.” His angel was clearly unwell, but Crowley didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. He waited patiently as Aziraphale switched to vigorously washing his face, soaking his stiff collar in the process. Crowley found a clean dish cloth and held it out. The angel didn’t notice for some moments, so Crowley touched his shoulder.

Aziraphale jumped back as if stung. “Don’t touch me!” he almost shouted. Then, he took the offered towel, careful not to brush fingers, soaked it in soap and water and began to scrub at the knees of his pants. 

Emotions chased across Crowley’s face till he settled on a confused scowl. Once Aziraphale had soaked his trousers, he wiped down his shoes. Then, helplessly, he started all over again with his hands. 

“Ok. That’s enough.” No response. “You’re done.” Crowley said firmly. Aziraphale kept washing. “You’re DONE!” he boomed, summoning a bit of demonic anger into his voice and slammed the faucet off. That shocked Aziraphale into stillness. “Go in there and sit down.”

Aziraphale started walking back the way Crowley had pointed, realized that he still held the dish cloth and took a moment to vanish it before continuing.

“On your left, the room with the plants.” Crowley instructed, and Aziraphale did as he was told. They both took a seat on a leather sofa that was surrounded by lush foliage, and the greenery trembled demurely around them. Aziraphale scooched away, widening the gap between them, then tucked his hands firmly between his knees. “Oh, come on!” Crowley moaned expressively. “What’s in your head, angel? Talk!”

“I- I thought I knew what holy water could do, but-“

Crowley sighed, “Yeah, it’s pretty bad, huh?” Then, he realized the error in this. “Well, actually pretty _good _in point of fact, but brutal to demons. You shouldn’t lose any sleep over Ligur, though. He was a real asshole.”

“It’s not about him,” Aziraphale corrected. “You can’t… you don’t think I care about any _other_ demons, do you?” Crowley felt his stomach twist tight, but Aziraphale continued. “I just kept thinking, what if it had been you.” Tears came to the angel’s eyes. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

Crowley thought back to the bookshop and the fire. He remembered praying that his life, now unbearably empty, might also be blessedly short. “I know what you mean.” Then, putting on a charming tone, “It’s a good thing I’m just fine. Still at large!”

But that didn’t seem to be the whole story because Aziraphale still looked like he was crumbling in on himself, his shoulders hunched, his hands still crushed between his knees. “Then I thought… Holy things… touching unholy things.”

Crowley wasn’t getting it. “You’ve washed away every last drop of that holy water. I’m pretty damn sure.”

“But what if my touch…” Aziraphale’s voice cracked pitifully. “Like consecrated ground… what if I hurt you?”

Crowley let out an exasperated huff. “Your touch doesn’t hurt me, angel.”

“I know not usually, but what if… more sustained… I mean, if we’re around each other more… Maybe I shouldn’t stay.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous!”

“But-“

Crowley cut him off. “But nothing! That’s not a thing!” he said, definitively. Unfortunately, he could clearly remember a time when they had both been worried about that very thing. In the beginning, Aziraphale had been certain that the demon was just tempting him to Fall. Crowley had been afraid that the angel might try to discorporate him at the first opportunity. In those early days, they hadn’t touched. There was no precedent for that kind of contact, so they hadn’t known what might happen. But that hadn’t been a concern for such a long time, all the years A.D., anyway. 

Crowley found himself a little miffed that this break-down, or whatever it was, seemed to be sending them rather backwards.

“How can you be so sure?” Aziraphale was asking.

“You wanna know why I’m sure?” Crowley snapped, “Cuz you’re a sloppy drunk!”

This hit the mark, and Crowley was rewarded by Aziraphale straightening up considerably. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t hold your liquor, Angel of the Eastern Gate. A couple of shots and you can’t walk straight to save your life.”

“What’s that got to do with-“

“Satan knows how many times I’ve had to hold you upright.”

“Oh.”

“And of course there was that one time I had to carry you half-way across London.”

Aziraphale reddened, “You never.”

“In my arms. Like a baby.”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to be offended but also wanted to laugh, and his eyes were still full of unshed tears. He was in a quandary.

“So, if you could melt me like holy water, that probably would have done it. And I bet you’ve done something similar for me a time or two.” The angel was brightening a little, so Crowley knew he just needed to keep him talking.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“Oh, come on!” Crowley begged.

“Well, I actually _have_ had a damnable time getting you into the bed,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley almost snorted, and had to bite down hard on the inside of his lip to keep a straight face. “Do tell.”

“As I recall, you were carrying on about something or other, and heading to bed. Started getting undressed.” Aziraphale blushed to his ears and added hastily, “Just your shirt, though! And then, all of the sudden, you just stopped mid-rant, said ‘It’s all too much’ or something, laid down on the floor and fell asleep.”

Crowley peered at him appraisingly. “Then what?” he arched an eyebrow suggestively. “Undressed me the rest of the way, did you?”

Aziraphale tsked and made a show of looking scandalized. “Of course not, dear! Just your shoes.”

Crowley shrugged in acceptance as if to say, there’s no accounting for taste.

“I had to drag you and sort of wrestle you up into the bed, somehow. You’re not light!”

“Then what?” Crowley urged again. This time the question was a bit of a cheat. Crowley actually remembered the incident pretty well. He’d woken up about halfway through the operation but had continued to be spectacularly unhelpful. So, it was not quite a happy accident when Aziraphale had toppled onto the bed with him. They had lain in a bit of a heap, Aziraphale catching his breath and Crowley trying not to let his breathing give him away. It had been lovely, and it had lasted rather longer than was safe before Aziraphale disentangled himself, straightened his waist coat and tie and abruptly buggered off. Crowley had felt sure that it would never, ever, be discussed again.

“What do you mean, ‘then what’, you old serpent? Then, you slept it off, I should think!”

“My point is though, that neither of us got disintegrated.”

Aziraphale gave him an embarrassed little smile, “Ok.”

“Better now?” Crowley peered at him, assessing.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, checking in to make sure his rampaging thoughts had stopped for the moment. “Yes. I think so.”

“Don’t scare me like that, angel!” Crowley said grumpily.

There was a moment’s silence. Finding that he felt more grounded, Aziraphale began to admire the lush green foliage of the indoor garden.

Crowley’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet when he said, “After everything we’ve done, I don’t know what’s going to happen to either of us. There aren’t many places we’ll be safe now. Except… for here.” The demon laid his hand palm-up on the couch beside the angel’s knee. “We’re safe with each other.” 

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s open hand, then at his own pudgy fingers. He pushed down the very last of his fear, and with a sigh of acceptance, placed his hand in Crowley’s. 

Neither of them burned or melted. But Aziraphale’s chest grew painfully tight with a glow that grew and grew, till there was barely room for his next breath. And Crowley’s stomach twisted around the lead weight of longing he always carried in his gut. Aside from these spiritual discomforts though, they were unharmed, and they sat hand in hand for a long time. Neither of them thought about moving until Aziraphale twitched suddenly, a tiny movement to bring himself awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d been drifting.

Crowley grinned, “Oh. Angels don’t need sleep, he says! Well, I guess averting the Apocalypse has got us both a little…”

“Tuckered out?” Aziraphale finished for him.

“Yeah, you could say that, if we were four, and we’d missed our nap time. Anyway, we should get some sleep.” Reluctantly, they drew their hands apart. Crowley stood up and Aziraphale leaned over to lay himself down on the sofa. “You’re not sleeping on this couch!” Crowley scolded.

“Why ever not?”

“It’s a very expensive couch,” he explained, and Aziraphale sat up again quickly, worried that he’d been caught in some social faux pas. Crowley continued, “It’s very modern, very stylish, and it’s about as comfortable as a pile of rocks.”

The angel laughed and waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine, dear. This is perfect. All these lovely plants, I’ll be quite comfortable. Like I’m back in the Garden, almost.”

“You really need to rest after today. We both do. And seriously… I can’t even sleep on this thing when I’m drunk. It’s heinous!” 

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Then, where?”

“My room.” Crowley began talking quickly, “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t make me worry about you trying to sleep out here all night. Plus, I almost lost you today. And I’m sorry I don’t have a guest room, really, I am. But you never come over, anyway. And my bed is huge; big enough for us both to have plenty of room. And if I have to, I’ll just put my foot down.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile when Crowley started rambling. “So, now you’re threatening to wrestle _me_ into bed, for a change?”

The words dried up on Crowley’s tongue, and he swallowed hard. The angel gave a charming laugh and offered up his hand to Crowley, who helped him up from the sofa and led him to the bedroom.

-

Crowley’s bed was indeed huge. Aziraphale lay on his back, hands folded primly over his middle. Before getting into bed, he’d miracled up a long, white night-shirt that could have come straight out of a Charles Dickens’ novel.

“I’m sorry I went all to pieces.” He murmured.

More than an arm’s length away, Crowley lay sprawled on top of the covers, frowning at the ceiling. “After all the lengths you’ve gone through to keep me safe from holy water…” He trailed off.

“Hmm?”

Crowley didn’t finish his thought, but instead said, “Thank you, by the way.”

“What are friends for?” Aziraphale had meant it, but it sounded so trite.

Crowley shut his eyes, a look of pain on his face, and said nothing. 

“You were saying?” Aziraphale prompted.

“Go to sleep, angel.”

“What did you mean, ‘after all…’”

A familiar tone of harsh irony came back into Crowley’s voice as he said, “I’ll probably die by holy water anyway, after everything.” Aziraphale propped himself up on his elbow to see his face more clearly, but Crowley kept his eyes on the ceiling, explaining, “You may have vanished the evidence, but the fact remains… I killed one of my own. There will be a trial, or what passes for a mockery of one. My presence will not be optional. And I’m sure the punishment will fit the crime, as they say.”

“No.” Aziraphale whispered. Then, in a stronger voice he said, “That’s not fair! It was my fault, my holy water. It should be me on trial. Darling, I wish I could go in your place.”

“Sweet of you,” Crowley glanced over at him, “but I think that’d rather defeat the point. The punishment wouldn’t have quite the same effect... Hey-“ He stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing at a new idea. “You’re going to be in for it too, I’d expect.”

“Certainly. Disobedience is even worse than murder with my lot.”

“And what will they do? Hellfire?”

Aziraphale didn’t like imagining how cold-blooded his people were likely to be. “Maybe. Probably.” Were they even his people any longer? “I don’t know.”

Crowley propped himself up as well, so that they were face to face. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” He was waiting for some confirmation in Aziraphale’s face, but as always, the angel had a somewhat delayed reaction. 

But after a few moments of hard thinking, Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Now there’s an idea!”

“It makes sense, right?”

“Seeing as how… we’re safe with each other,” Aziraphale agreed. He found that the thought filled a hole somewhere inside him. It was a hole he’d learned to live with for 6,000 years. But if he were being honest with himself, pushing Crowley away, keeping him at arm’s length for so many years, had actually cost him dearly. If they could really stand _together_ against heaven and hell, that would feel _right._ Standing in for each other, protecting each other, that would finally be the _right_ thing to do, when everything else about the last few days had felt so _wrong_. 

For the first time in forever, Aziraphale wasn’t scared. He felt brave. Then, he heard his own voice repeating Crowley’s refrain, “On our own side.”

The Idea was obviously giving Crowley a shot of courage too. The demon’s grin was positively sinister. “I’d like to see those self-righteous bastards try their fire and brimstone trick on the demon who-“ he stopped.

Aziraphale heard the words that were unspoken, and he thought someone should say it. “Just think. They’ll come to collect us, and we’ll be… well, not even an angel and a demon, really. Just two beings who love each other.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know that everyone is currently imagining their own version of the missing scene back at Crowley's flat. I wanted to add this to the symphony of other ideas. This is how I picture it, since the not-pocolypse has triggered so many of their deepest fears. As someone with mild OCD, I think that sometimes Aziraphale may not be able to control his thoughts. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I would be absolutely thrilled if you would drop a comment and tell me what you thought.


End file.
